Lethal Circuit by Lars Guignard Page B

metal chair, feeling its legs sink into the soil.
    “Who are you?”
    “Chase. Michael Chase.”
    She cocked the gun, pulling back the integrated safety trigger. Michael noted that it was a Glock. Probably a twenty-six. Definitely a problem.
    “I said who are you?”
    “And I told you.”
    “What are you doing here?”
    “Like I told you the first time, I’ve come to find my father.”
    “Who’s your father?”
    “Alex Chase.”
    “How do you know Alex Chase?”
    “He’s my dad.”
    Kate looked unconvinced.
    “Don’t believe me? Look at me.” Michael reached for the pocket of his cargo pants. “Look at this.”
    Kate pointed her gun. “Careful.”
    Michael raised one hand and slowly reached into his pocket withdrawing his wallet. He opened it up, revealing a photo of himself and his dad. It had obviously been taken several years previously. The two of them were in shorts and t-shirts, grease everywhere, arms around each other’s shoulders in front of a partially disassembled Volkswagen dune buggy. They called the dune buggy the Yellow Bomber and there was no denying that they were happy, just as there was no denying the family resemblance. It was in the blue eyes, the nose, and the chin, even the way they held themselves. Michael was his father’s son all over.
    “Fine. Let’s say you’re his son. Do you know who your father was?”
    “Dad? The guy who changed my diapers? The guy who brought me to the ball game? What do you want me to say?”
    “You don’t know, do you?”
    “Look. You helped me out last night and for that I’m grateful. But the way I see it, this isn’t about me, or my dad, it’s about you.”
    “Wrong. Open the chest.”
    “Why?”
    “Four in, third drawer down. Open it.”
    Michael looked at the apothecary chest. It was so covered in foundation dust, it didn’t look like anybody had opened anything for a very long time. Michael counted four drawers in and three down. He pulled the wooden drawer open. It was empty.
    “There’s a catch inside the drawer on the top panel. Pull it.”
    Michael felt inside the drawer. The wood was rougher in here, unpainted, but his fingers hit something that felt like a metal spring. He pulled it and heard a click.
    “Now reach around the back of the chest.”
    Michael did as he was instructed. He felt it immediately. A metal box had popped out of the back panel. Placing a hand on either side of the box, Michael was able to remove it, bringing it into the light. The box was dented black metal. About three inches in depth and a little longer than it was wide, it was about the size of a standard Fed Ex parcel.
    “Open it.”
    The lid was hinged. Michael struggled to undo the hasp, but it was sticky. He had to apply some force, and then, unexpectedly, the hinged side of the lid came open, depositing the box’s contents onto the ground. The first thing Michael saw was a number of passports: Swiss, Canadian, German, British, and at least three others, though Michael couldn’t make out the nationalities from where he stood. There was also currency, a lot of it: bank wrapped packets of euros, pounds, renminbi, dollars. There were what looked like some cosmetic products, some hair dye, contact lenses. And there was a gun. A Browning semi-automatic by the looks of it, its muzzle dug into the dirt.
    Kate kicked the Browning aside, hunching down to collect the passports. She opened the British one up first, displaying a photo of Michael’s father. He had black hair and a goatee in the shot, but there was no disputing it was him. She read the name under the photo. “Randal Harris.”
    She tossed the passport to Michael, and opened up the next one. It was Swiss. Here Michael’s dad had a shaven head and appeared to be wearing green colored contacts. She read the name under the photo. “Jacob Stringer.” She tossed Michael the Swiss passport and opened the German one. This time Michael’s dad wore a blonde crew cut with a bushy mustache.